


Chain Rule

by weytani



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, F/F, F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weytani/pseuds/weytani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of short fics for writing practice. Mostly AUs, oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hang in There, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to spam the tag with this stuff so I thought I'd give it a little home.
> 
> this one is for the very long au prompt from tumblr 'you found me hanging by my fingertips from your window and i don't want to tell you i was trying to rob you but idk how else to explain this and i don't want to go to jail and also you're kind of cute we should make out when i'm not clinging onto your window ledge for my life' (thanks julia ♥)

Sameen Shaw is a professional; she doesn’t make mistakes. What she does make are choices, ones that lead to other choices that, in turn, lead to a body or a stamp on a sheet of paper in the darker corners of the White House.

This isn’t the first time she’s been sent to retrieve classified information, and it’s not the first time the target has arrived back at their office slash home slash place of generic criminal activity far sooner than anticipated.

It is, however, the first time she’s ever misjudged her own balance and ended up clinging to a slab of concrete for dear life.

There’s an uncomfortable layer of icy slush seeping through her coat sleeves by the time Caroline Turing pokes her head through the doorway. Shaw’s arms are only just starting to feel the ache of her full body weight, and she’s finally grateful for all the time spent training on the salmon ladder Cole had set up back at her apartment.

Turing steps into the room with a grace not befitting the troublesome cybercriminal that she may well be. Through the faintly steamed-up window, Shaw watches her unwrap a thick scarf from around her neck and sweep a handful of long brown curls over her shoulder. Admittedly, if Shaw had passed this woman on the street, she may have taken a second look. Even now, Shaw finds her eyes flitting down and back up while her feet scrape uselessly against the building in search of leverage.

And then, of course, Turing starts stripping.

With her personality disorder, along with a job which leaves her doing some pretty questionable shit on any given day, shame isn’t really in Shaw’s wheelhouse. And while it’s not like she has any kind of moral qualms with this impromptu peepshow, she’s not currently in a position to enjoy it. The winter air nips at her face and hands, like Mother Nature is reprimanding her for paying a little too much attention to Turing’s legs as she draws her trousers down over her knees.

It’s hardly Shaw’s fault that Caroline Turing wears lacy black underwear and walks around in nothing else with the curtains open. Living on the fourth floor is no excuse, and as far as Shaw’s concerned this is a victimless crime. Unlike selling government secrets to the highest bidder.

Actually, if she doesn’t get off this ledge in the next five minutes, _she’ll_ probably become the victim.

Shaw has to move eventually, has to readjust her grip before she loses it completely, and of course this half-naked criminal would turn around just in time to see her scrambling. Shaw expects some kind of reaction, sure, maybe a scream or a dash to cover herself from the deplorable pervert outside her bedroom window.

But Turing takes one look at her and cracks a smile that Shaw can neither read nor fathom. Slowly, she pulls the jacket back on over her bare shoulders and crosses the room to open the window.

“Come here often?”

Looking far too relaxed, Turing leans her forearms against the edge of the windowsill and grins down at Shaw like she’s approaching her at a bar, rather than over a drop that could potentially end her life. She shivers a bit when the wind blows through, and Shaw gets a good long look at her breasts through the open jacket.

“Just enjoying the view,” Shaw says, and means it.

“Not exactly the best seat in the house, is it?”

“Are you going to let me in or what?”

She’s already swinging her legs up onto the ledge as she says it, but Turing still hums like she’s got a choice in the matter.

This mission’s already blown to hell, so Shaw is about done being what her boss would refer to as a “scalpel” here. That’s never been her gig, anyway. Turing’s going to give up what she stole or she’s going to get hammered down, whether or not she’s wearing designer lingerie and looking at Shaw like she might be counting on it.

Which she is. And it’s getting distracting.

Inside the room, Shaw pulls a gun out of her pocket and points it at Turing, who merely crosses her arms in response. “You know why I’m here.”

“Not to watch me changing, I suppose.”

“No.”

Turing breathes out through her nose and reaches for her purse. The flashdrive looks small grasped between her long fingers, and Shaw watches her toy with it for a moment before her gaze snaps back to Turing’s face. She cocks the gun, scowling.

“Is this what you’re after?” Turing bats her eyes innocently, balancing the stick between her index fingers.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

It wouldn’t be the first time someone gave up false information and caught the next flight out of the country. That stunt on the ledge would be Shaw's only slip today.

“You can trust me. It’s all worthless anyway.”

“Then why steal it?” Shaw narrows her eyes, irritation rising in her gut.

“Well…” The flashdrive beats a steady rhythm against Turing’s cheek as she pretends to think about it. “Maybe to get someone’s attention.”

Shaw's hand flexes around the grip, index finger brushing the trigger with consideration. She could shoot this woman in the head right now and take what she came for, and she probably wouldn't feel any special way about it.

Instead, she asks, “Why?”

Turing digs her teeth into the corner of her lower lip and tosses the stick to Shaw, who catches it with her free hand, gun still directed at the spot between Turing's eyes. She repeats the question, a little less forcefully this time.

“You're not an easy gal to find, Sameen,” Turing all but sings, throwing her hands up defensively when Shaw's gaze turns razor sharp. “What exactly is the dating etiquette for two people who don't _officially_ exist?”

“I don't date.”

“But you do other things.”

Looking the way she does, of course Shaw's been propositioned by criminals in the past, but until now she's never been even passively interested in one. The agency doesn't give her a lot of free time to pursue encounters like this, and now here she is, standing half a room apart from a very attractive woman wearing nothing but her underwear and an expression that says, “there's a bed right there, and we're both very aware of it.”

So. She's thinking about it.

Turing smiles again and, as if sensing her eroding restraint, reaches one hand under the jacket, behind her back, and flicks the clasp of her bra open. And yeah, that pretty much seals it for Shaw.

The muzzle of her handgun dips downward and before she really has time to rethink this whole experience, she's adjusting the safety and dropping it onto the bedside table while Turing splays herself across the sheets. Shaw's peacoat hits the floor, and her boots follow soon after.

“And don't worry,” Turing grins, pulling her forward onto the bed impatiently, “there's still plenty of time for you to fall for me.”


	2. Tick Yes or No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a crush on Joss, and three unhelpful classmates. (elementary school au)

John clutched the folded white slip of paper between his fingers, equal parts hopeful and fearful of what was coming. He'd been planning this for weeks now, changing his mind over and over about what the best course of action would be for a mission like this.

Being in the fifth grade was complicated enough without trying to tell a girl she made your insides feel like Play Doh but like, in a good way.

Joss Carter was the most popular girl in the class, but John thought he had a pretty good chance. They played 'cops and robbers' during recess sometimes, and she was the best pretend cop he knew, but sometimes she let him escape. That must be a good sign.

He fiddled with the note, tapping it against his desk as he glanced around the room. Nobody was looking, nobody had seen him write it. It was a good idea, definitely. What better way to find out if someone liked you than to ask them directly from the opposite side of the room?

That way, if she said no, he could climb through the open window and hide in a storage closet until the bell rang or that scary-looking janitor dragged him out.

There were three seats between him and Joss, so now he just needed to convince their occupants to play along in the name of love. Lionel, he could probably count on. The guy was practically his best friend since John saved his butt from some middle school bullies last year, not that either of them would ever admit to it.

Root was another issue altogether. Back when they were seven, she'd filled his seat with water over lunch break and distracted him so he'd sit in it, and then she told everyone he had wet his pants. He got sent home in tears and everyone called him John Pee-se for a month.

That was a dark day in his ten years of history.

But if he could get the note past Root without her humiliating him for no reason, Sameen might just take him the final distance. She wasn't mean or anything, just quiet and more interested in the big textbooks she carried around than anyone who might want to be her friend.

That said, Sameen could be pretty scary in P.E. class, and she ate lunch with Root often enough that John had to wonder if pure evil was contagious.

He leaned forward onto his desk, trying to look over at Joss without drawing too much attention. She looked completely focused on Mr. Finch's lesson, just like always. Her pen scribbled across the notebook in front of her, line after neatly written line, and John pictured her using that same pen on his note when he finally got it to her.

In his head, he saw her smiling as she ticked the box, glancing at him excitedly while also trying to concentrate on the teacher. And he'd smile back, all charming-like, and not at all embarrassed. And then they could go out, like on TV; holding hands and beating up bad guys together. It was perfect.

But first, the note.

John crumpled up a different sheet of paper and tossed it at Lionel, who jumped when it bounced off the side of his head and turned to scowl at him across the gap between their tables.

“What was that for?” Lionel hissed, reaching for his own paper to retaliate.

John waved his arm and held up the folded note with Joss' name scribbled on the side, pointing at her meaningfully before passing it over. His handwriting was a little scruffy, maybe, but there weren't many four letter names in the class.

Lionel squinted at the note suspiciously, like it was going to blow up in his hands or reveal some kind of dangerous secret. He poked a finger under the flap as if to open it up and received another paper ball to the head for his troubles.

Step one complete. If only the others were as easy to reason with.

Further along the row, Root was rolling a lock of hair between her fingers, looking completely unmotivated as usual. Her notebook sat unopened on the desk, a black ballpoint pen lined up neatly beside it, just as it was every day, while Root stared off into space or passed notes to Sameen which were usually left unopened.

Finally, Lionel made his move. “Hey, Cocoa Puffs,” he said, in a whisper that really wasn't.

Root ignored him.

“Root. Psst, Root.”

At the front of the room, Mr. Finch stopped reading out loud just long enough to shush Lionel, and John winced a bit in embarrassment at having the room's attention on his note-carrier. At least Root had finally deigned to turn around.

“What?” she mouthed.

When the note was flicked onto her desk, she wasted no time in pulling it open, and seconds later turned to stare at Lionel like he'd just passed wind in an airless room.

“Not me,” he mumbled defensively.

Her gaze moved to John, expression becoming even more disgusted, if that were possible. If he wasn't equally as horrified at what she was thinking, he'd probably be offended.

“No,” he mouthed back, pointing to Joss.

Root looked at her, then down at the note. For a moment, John thought he'd actually gotten through to her. Maybe Root wasn't so bad; maybe she was like the Grinch, and the power of his feelings would make her heart grow. Or something.

But then her face split into the toothy smile from his nightmares, and John wondered if now was the right time to make his escape through the window.

His brain flashed through the possibilities. Would she rip it up? Pass it in the wrong direction? Kara was sitting right in front of her and if she found out, he'd never hear the end of it.

Lionel turned back to him and shrugged, forsaking John to his doom in favour of finishing a messy drawing of a panda in his notebook. Loyalty was hard-found in a class of elementary schoolers.

John shook his head at Root, silently begging, and maybe his fear was enough because she immediately picked up her pen and started poking Sameen in the shoulder. For a while, Sameen just leaned away, nose still buried in the Human Biology textbook she'd somehow gotten a hold of.

When the jabbing persisted, she slammed the book shut and glared at her tormentor. Root tossed the note over, and John could see her biting on the cap of her pen, grinning wildly as Sameen picked it up.

This was the final hurdle, he was so close to reaching Joss where she sat, completely oblivious to his struggles, his journey. Sameen would definitely pass it, she had to now that he'd made it so far.

His heart beat fast as Sameen's eyes scanned the paper, face blank. She looked up, but not at him, and as she stared Root down with that same deadpan expression, John had the terrible feeling that a grave misunderstanding had just taken place.

“Be honest,” Root whispered, confirming his fears.

The devil had just stolen his love note.

His chair scraped backwards across the floor viciously, and he stood up just in time to watch Sameen raise a thick, red marker to his pride and joy, searing her answer and his hopes across the paper.

“John.”

Mr. Finch stood in front of his desk, looking both displeased and concerned at the sudden movement. Behind him, Joss stared along with the rest of the class, like he was having some kind of frenzy in the middle of the classroom. It was like being seven all over again, but with dry pants.

“See me after class, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's like i can't write root and john in the same fic without her ruining his life somehow. ily john, forgive me


	3. No Sense or Sensibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw works at a bookstore. Root's not there for the reading material.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks @ julia once again for the prompt and the beta <3
> 
> one line shamelessly lifted from community!

“You gonna buy that or just gawk at it for another twenty minutes? Library’s down the street.”

Root lowers the open book in her hands, face a mask of wholesome innocence as she peers out from behind its yellowing pages. Caught already. Oops. Careful to hold the book just high enough to cover the giddy smile now biting at her mouth, she turns on her heel to meet the annoyed glare being directed at her from behind the counter.

 “Just a little longer, I promise.”

With a long-suffering eye roll, Shaw – a name Root has only recently discovered from casually eavesdropping on Shaw’s conversations with her manager – turns back to the magazine laid out in front of her. She’s been leaning over it for a while now, flicking through the pages idly, but Root has noticed her glancing at the clock on the wall above her every couple of minutes.

Other things Root has noticed: Shaw has a tattoo on her right forearm, she’s ambidextrous – or at least skilled enough with both hands to pass for it (which, mm) – and she keeps a box of energy bars stashed under the register, which she draws on when the manager goes out to smoke in the back alley every half hour or so.

Root has noticed these things, and so many others, because she’s been borderline stalking Shaw for about three months now.

Well, it’s not as sinister as it sounds; Root has actually just been showing up at her workplace, a used-book store east of the city, every Saturday afternoon. About an hour before the store is due to close, she’ll park herself in the Classic Literature section, the one closest to the counter where Shaw spends her time lounging, and thumb through whichever dog-eared book happens to catch her eye. All the while doing her best to get Shaw’s attention in the most roundabout way.

The trick is to rub the pages together noisily as you’re turning them, to shift your weight every now and then so that the old floorboards creak under you, and to generally be as noisy and bothersome as possible without actually opening your mouth.

Things like this always drive Shaw up the wall, and that means Root has her attention, at least for short bursts.

Of course, Root has to actually buy something at the end of the process, lest she overstep her boundaries and get herself banned from the place for life. But the small price is worth getting an up-close look at Shaw’s beautiful face as she busies herself with the register. Maybe one of these days, Root will “accidentally” brush their fingers together as she hands over the book (another to the growing pile she’s been using as an wobbly coffee table at home).

Root likes to imagine this kind of romantic scene as she skims over the same paragraph several times, waiting a believable number of seconds before flicking to the next page. She imagines Shaw looking deep into her eyes with that piercing gaze of hers, and one day asking Root out for coffee at the end of her shift.

That is, after all, the whole intention behind Root’s weekly waiting game.

_“No, no,” cried Marianne, “m_ _isery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched.”_

_I hear you, sister,_ Root muses to herself, slamming the book closed, an act which earns her another glare from Shaw. Closing time’s in five minutes, and it’s usually around this point that she starts getting particularly antsy. Root finds it quite cute, actually.

“About time,” Shaw says, when Root finally nudges the book across the counter with an index finger.

“I like to make an informed decision on all my investments. It’s good business, you know.”

“For three bucks each?” Shaw gives her a flat look. “I’ll pay for the damn things myself just to get you out of my hair.”

That sounds promising, not that Root actually cares to own anymore of these makeshift coasters. But... receiving them from Shaw at no cost would technically be a gift, she supposes; that’s progress.

Smiling, Root cups the edge of the counter with both hands and leans forward. “And deprive you of our little rendezvous every weekend? Never.”

“By all means, don’t do me any favours,” Shaw mutters, grabbing the crisp bills from between Root’s fingers when she holds them out. Their hands touch for a fraction of a second, and Root’s whole body zeroes in on that one spot where Shaw’s skin brushed hers. Like she can still feel it if she tries hard enough.

 _Wretched_ is definitely the right word. This is getting embarrassing.

“I cherish the time we spend together, Shaw,” Root says, and crosses her arms on the counter just to keep them to herself. Her tone is light and teasing, but that doesn’t mean she’s lying. Hopefully Shaw won’t notice the difference.

The register snaps shut with a resigned clang, and Shaw slides Root’s change across the counter, shaking her head. “Put it in a letter, Jane Austen. I’m not even touching the fact that you know my name already.”

“Reading isn’t my only hobby.” Root winks at her, but it’s not effectively sexy this time around, based on the little twitch of Shaw’s lips as she meets her gaze.

“Stalking isn’t a hobby,” Shaw says, and suddenly she’s leaning over the counter too, balanced on her forearms. Root’s breathing stutters out for a few long seconds. “It’s a crime. Are you a criminal?”

She’s not an upstanding citizen, at the very least.

“If being attractive was a crime-“

Root doesn’t get to finish her line, which is disappointing, but not as much as the speed at which Shaw’s head whirls back when her manager stalks in through the back door and yells, “Closing time, no stragglers!”

Just like that, she’s lost Shaw’s interest again. Still, five minutes of conversation after three months feels like a rousing success where Shaw is concerned.

Root stuffs the book into her shoulder bag, watching as Shaw darts around the shop and practically steps on the heels of anyone taking too long to disperse from the aisles. Interestingly enough, she doesn’t heckle Root in the same fashion.

“You too, Classic Lit.” Across the room, Shaw holds the front door open with one hand and jabs her thumb at it with the other.

“Until next time,” Root says with a grin, stepping around her from a not-so respectable distance, despite the doorway being wide enough for the both of them. Shaw doesn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

As Root walks down the city streets on her way home, thumb idly rubbing over the place where their hands had touched, she wonders how many more used books she’ll have to invest in before this develops into anything.

Maybe next time, she’ll actually tell Shaw her name.


	4. The Daily Grind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... i've been temping at an office lately... haha...

It’s Hump Day at the office, and for Harold that means green tea at his desk while he works through the first of his daily reports.

Not many people arrive at the building so early. Usually Harold has the pleasure of frowning at them as they shuffle through the glass doors long after the sun has risen, yawning into their disposable coffee cups. Their attitudes reflect poorly on the company, but secretly he does enjoy the dichotomy.

A little after nine, Harold finds that the ink in his last biro is running low. He turns in his seat, using both hands to adjust each leg just so before using the desk as leverage to stand up. The storage room isn’t far, and he’s quite sure that wild-eyed young intern Claire had dealt with a rather large stationary order just last week.

Better to take what he needs now, rather than wait for the hounds (read: Leon Tao, notorious hoarder of office supplies, and Sameen Shaw, of the five-finger-discount variety) to descend later in the day.

The air conditioner has been acting up for a few weeks now, whirring noisily in the hallway leading up to the storage room. And it’s this that keeps him from hearing it- from catching any hint of what’s waiting for him beyond the door.

So he turns the handle and swings it wide.

“Mm, Sameen...”

“Oh dear,” Harold manages.

There, against the furthest wall of shelves, right beside a pile of boxes he knows to contain his pens—There he finds Sameen Shaw, button-down shirt open and messily untucked from her dark slacks. She’s got one hand grasping at a shelf above her head, keeping herself upright, while the other yanks at the tie that’s wrapped around her fist.

The tie in question is still looped around someone else’s neck.

Root turns her head as the door flies open, looking surprised and then only passably sheepish at the interruption. The lights are off, but Harold can see the ring of irritated skin around her neck where the tie has been digging in. And yet, far from being a victim of Sameen’s aggression, Root seems to have her pressed up against the shelves in a very purposeful way.

When Root’s body turns to follow her head’s movement, Harold has the great embarrassment of seeing her hand tucked cosily in the open fly of Sameen’s trousers. And it remains there even as Harold gapes at them both from the doorway.

There’s a beat of silence, followed by another. Sameen loosens her hold on the tie a fraction and gazes steadily at him across the room. Root looks like she’s trying for an apologetic smile, but it comes off rather smug.

Without a word, Harold steps back and pulls the door shut as fast as he can. His limp feels more pronounced than usual as he treks back to his desk, with no pen and no idea how he’ll be able to look either of his colleagues in the eye over the coming days.

Hump Day, he thinks with a resigned grimace, will never quite have the same ring to it.


	5. Hot Sauce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd little 4x10 drabble I just had nipping at my brain :x

Finch is looking the other way when Root slides a hand across Shaw’s thigh.

It’s immediate, actually, like she was clocking the second his eyes turned away from them, waiting for the moment to get fresh. It’s probably flattering, Shaw thinks, and the lack of restraint Root shows around her is pretty funny when it’s not aggravating.

Like today.

Maybe she’s just trying to make up for the double-cross, the needle to Shaw’s throat in a bingo hall of all places. This leg touching while Shaw’s tearing into two handfuls of meat and peperoncini and soft bread that she mauls with her teeth.

Cole once told her that he’d rather bathe his grandma than watch her eat with her hands. He liked to exaggerate, sure, but so does Shaw; she makes a display of it when she wants to, just to turn stomachs and avoid eye contact.

Root’s stare burns into the side of her face.

Her hand is warm from the stupid costume, and it’s settled right above Shaw’s knee, squeezing a little with the tips of her fingers. Shaw allows it because her hands are full.

“Sameen,” Root says under her breath. She’s leaning closer, her arm unfurling over the back of the bench to drape behind Shaw’s shoulders.

Shaw spares her a sidelong glance, swallowing a thick clump of the food before she replies, “Don’t push it.”

Root’s eyebrows lift in a innocent way. Like _who, me?_ She’d fit right in at a convent, Shaw thinks. Except Root’s hand has trailed up her leg a ways, and she’s still leaning far too close. Shaw can feel long fingers stroking at her back through the coat in an idle way.

“You have something...” Root trails off, and Shaw turns her head to say something cool and snide, like _damn right, I have a meal I’m trying to finish if you’d stop fondling me for two seconds_.

But Root’s lips touch hers and her mouth opens, and fuck, her tongue is right _there_. Shaw opens her own mouth slightly, ready for the only kind of action she can get around here with her wrist handcuffed to the bench.

A warm tongue flicks over Shaw’s bottom lip for a slow, heated couple of seconds, and then Root’s gone, pulling away like it never happened. Shaw’s got more dignity than it would take to chase her, so she closes her mouth and rolls her eyes. Later, then.

“Sriracha,” Root says with a smile. She takes her hand from Shaw’s leg and brings her thumb up to her mouth, pressing. “A little too spicy for my taste.”

Shaw would love to make a comment about the inside of Root’s closet, but Finch glances over at them— and then immediately away, looking flushed all of a sudden. Ha, she enjoys that reaction sometimes, too. Root's still looking at her, but she can hear Reese's voice over the speakers at Finch's desk. Time to get back to business.


	6. Looking at Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little 3x06 thing written for an ask prompt to my tumblr, also unbeta-d lmao

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

“And how’s that?” Shaw asks, like she’s resigned to hearing the answer one way or the other.

She’s sat at the desk with both feet thrown up over it, legs crossed at the ankle. The chair is a ridge of hard wood against her spine, uncomfortable, but she rocks backwards on its hind legs and picks at her fingernails.

“Let me cut to the chase,” Root says instead. She’s been pacing around the safehouse for a while now, staring at random objects with a thoughtful look on her face. Now she’s standing at the edge of the desk, and Shaw would prefer she not get any closer than that.

“I think, and correct me if I’m wrong,” Root smiles at the very idea of this, “we’re due for a really vigorous fuck.”

Shaw blinks once, looking up from her fingernails.

Huh.

“I gun you down and wake up zip-tied to a steering wheel, and you think the next step is me taking my pants off for you,” Shaw says, a wry smirk pulling at her mouth.

Root doesn’t look like she’s kidding; no, the way she’s now leaning over the desk, flicking locks of perfect hair over one shoulder with a practiced sweep of her head – that’s a come-on if Shaw’s ever seen one.

“I’m willing to take the first step,” Root murmurs, and Shaw thinks _yeah_ , she probably would, wouldn’t she?

And, honestly, Shaw’s not really opposed to seeing what Root’s got under the hood. Doesn’t mean she’s going to get her off. Maybe she’ll take care of herself and leave Root zip-tied to the radiator for a while, catch a few hours of sleep before the men in black come knocking.

Shaw drops forward hard in her chair so its front legs crack against the floor.

“Start with the jacket,” she says. The night is still young.


	7. Downtown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothin' new here, I just had another "caught in the act" scene in my head. Unbeta'd because she's had to read so much of this junk already, haha.

Fusco wheezed a dry, rattling cough as he passed through a thick cloud of second-hand smoke. He squinted down the long hallway, gaze flicking from one checked-out face to the next. Seeing anything through the dim lighting and the fumes had been a struggle since he’d passed through the first set of double doors, but still he tried.

Places like this were always a nightmare, he knew. Wrong side of town, too late in the day. Flashing your badge would get you through the front door, through any door, but it might also get you shot.

Fusco messed with his tie as he walked, loosening the knot, and then tightening it again. At least his wasn’t the only suit in there tonight, from the looks of things. Some of the corridors he passed lead to open rooms, and inside he caught glimpses of leather couches and women wearing very little. Paper money swapping hands. A lot of unfriendly guys staring daggers when they caught him looking.

That was all part of the job, though. Even when he was off duty. John said he was just one of those people who had a look about them, and Fusco chose to take that as a compliment.

And speaking of John, wasn’t it his fault Fusco was stuck down there in the first place? Too busy to pick up his sister-in-crime from drug den daycare all of a sudden.

Honestly, Fusco was surprised to hear Shaw would frequent a place like this at all. She was a good-looking lady, beautiful when she wasn’t flashing that notorious dead-eyed stare of hers. Maybe even then. If Fusco himself could get a date in this city – which he could, thank you very much – then Shaw should have a line all the way to the Upper East Side.

But here she was, and for some reason her phone was going straight to voicemail. And they all knew hell would freeze over before that went anywhere.

There were a couple of burly-looking guys in black at the end of the hallway, a bridge of red rope across the entryway behind them. Beyond that, the wall turned a sharp corner into darkness.

Fusco flashed his badge again, citing “official police business.” Which it wasn’t, but vigilantes got a colder welcome than police officers around here, especially now that The Man in the Suit had made a name for himself. Him and his band of merry men, which, okay, included Fusco these days. And he wasn’t too dissatisfied with the work they’d been doing.

Around the corner, the passage opened out into a decadent parlour. More leather, less smoke, the clink of wineglasses from small circles of people milling around the room. Trust Shaw to purse her way into the V.I.P. lounge.

He couldn’t see her there, though. A waiter passed by with a tray of drinks balanced on one palm, which Fusco carefully avoided with his eyes.

Quickly, he threw a hand up to catch the waiter’s attention, and the man looked him over suspiciously. “Something I can help you with?” He sounded reluctant.

“Yeah, you seen a short, Persian women around here? Long hair, probably mowed through your hors d'oeuvres like Ms. Pac-Man?”

“We aren’t supposed to discuss our patrons...”

Fusco reached for his jacket, lifting it up a little to show the heat he was packing. It wasn’t his favourite technique, but it was usually the most effective. Still, the waiter looked uncertain.

Fusco rolled his eyes before digging a twenty out of his pocket, sliding it onto the tray meaningfully. “She’s a friend. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

And just like that, the waiter looked around, nodding to himself, and pointed weakly to a door across the room with a bulb of red light glowing on the wall above it.

“There. But she’s-“

“Thanks,” Fusco interrupted, already in motion. The smell of vodka was making his stomach churn.

He got through the door without any more trouble, and pulled it shut behind him. The gossip and tinkling laughter dulled to a quiet drone, and in its place came the sound of low music playing from a set of speakers at the end of the passage he was standing in. Up ahead, he could see it ended in another opening- a private booth, from the looks of it. He saw a deep red sofa in the gaps between a beaded curtain.

The music was an intimate jazz track; Fusco was sure he’d heard it in a bar somewhere. In another life. But it didn’t quite cover the sound of heated whispering from the booth, of what sounded like...

Oh, so it was _that_ kind of party.

Fusco felt his face warming up, sweat gathering around his neck. Damn it, Shaw. But somebody’s life could be on the line, and John was busy. Somebody’s _life_ , alright?

He swallowed down an embarrassed gurgle and ploughed through the curtain, doing his best to look at the carpet, the ceiling, anywhere but straight ahead.

The first figure he saw wasn’t Shaw.

Root, naked from the waist up, turned to peer at him over one bare shoulder. And there, straddled between her legs on the sofa, was Shaw.

“Red light means Fuck Off.” She hadn’t seen his face yet, not with Tall, Dark and Down-with-murder all cosy in her lap. Shaw’s hands were at Root’s waist, holding her close despite the unwelcome visitor, and through all this Root stared him down with a malicious smile dimpling her cheeks.

Fusco’s gaze had shot to the wayside after that first glance, but her expression burned a hole in his periphery.

“Ah, geez, would you put some clothes on at least,” he choked out.

Root slid from her perch when Shaw dropped her sideways onto the sofa cushion. She crouched against the leather, reaching over for her shirt, while Shaw draped her arms over the back of the seat and gave Fusco a defiant look.

“Something we can help you with, Lionel?” Shaw asked. There were telling marks along her throat and chest where the tank-top dipped low, shaded dark and light where blatant hickeys met the oval print of stained lipstick.

Despite everything, Fusco got the distinct feeling he was the most self-conscious person in the room. “Somebody needs your help but it’s not me,” he said. “No, what I need is to walk out of here and into traffic, because you two are unbelievable.”

“We all need a hobby,” Root said cheerfully, just as Shaw abruptly rose to her feet and asked, “New number?”

“My ex-wife liked Pilates,” Fusco muttered, shaking his head.

“Skip the chit-chat, we’re losing daylight.”

Root finished buttoning her top and reached down to straighten the hem of her skirt. She turned, leaning to collect her other belongings from the sofa and, none too subtly, fish something black and lacy out of Shaw’s pocket. Fusco wished he hadn’t seen that.

“Too late, sun went down already. Not that’s you’d notice, all cooped up here in your love-nest.” One shot, just one. He deserved a miniscule amount of leverage here, for God’s sake.

Shaw didn’t even blink.

“Sounds like you’re going to have your hands full,” Root chimed in. She’d been quiet for a while, as she sometimes was, with that distant look on her face. Maybe Shaw had that effect on people, or— no, really, he didn’t want to think about it.

“You hear something?” Shaw turned to her expectantly, but Root just smiled and took a step closer.

Her hand rose like she was going to reach out, hovering briefly, and Root glanced sidelong at Fusco before she closed her fingers against the open palm and drew back. “Not really. Grab some napkins from the waitstaff on your way out.”

“Bullet wounds?” Shaw deduced.

Root bit her lip around a wide smirk. “Lipstick, actually.”


	8. A-Side B-Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A. Root is caught in the act! Of killing! Bad Root.
> 
> B. It's... not an AU.... who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while back I was stuck without wifi for a while, so I made up a writing game to entertain myself. I'd take a chapter from a book I was reading and set the first word on each page as a paragraph starter, and then try to make a fic out of it. The results are maybe a little choppy, but I had fun!
> 
> Two completely unrelated and unedited oneshots below!

**A.**

Detective Sameen Shaw was certainly a wildcard amongst the many straight-laced officers Root had faced off with over the years. The first, perhaps, to point a gun at her without losing a handful of fingers.

“We’re not yet acquainted, I don’t think,” Root simpered, lying. She had dirt on every major player in the city. “Call me Root.”

And stop looking at me so fiercely, she didn’t say. It was making her skin prickle in a way she couldn’t really engage with her knife in a young man’s cartilage, blood spurting tenderly against her palm. Warm and living and dripping from the plastic.

That name had its desired effect- minute as it was. Detective Shaw registered it, eyes narrowed, gun barrel tipping up into a steady parallel that would catch her between the eyes in an instant.

“I’m going to give you five seconds,” Shaw said, and oh, Root even liked the agitated rumble of her voice. “Put down the knife, or I’ll put you down holding it.”

“Not even a how-do-you-do. Well, fine.” Root pouted and did as she was told. Her knife clattered indelicately against the floor, a silver needle in a compass of drying blood.

Without glancing at the weapon, Shaw crossed the room in three strides and trained her gun on Root’s smiling face, centimetres away. Root stood her ground.

Intimidating people was something of a natural talent for her. She couldn’t be forced back by a cop with a Beretta, even one so unpredictable. “What next, Detective? Should I get on my knees for you?”

Only a disinterested blink in response. How interesting.

Finally, something more entertaining than murder to focus on. Root was starting to lose business in that market anyway; damn city-wide, police-enforced curfew.

“Hernandez, get your ass over to container 474 before I shoot this bitch in the head,” Shaw muttered into the walkie fastened to her collar. She didn’t look too comfortable in the standard issue button-down, Root noticed.

Tight around the shoulders, just a little bit. There was muscle under there.

“Anything I say will be held against me, right?” Root took a step closer, and Shaw eyed her cautiously, trigger finger tensing. “Detective...”

 

**B.**

“Hola!” The waiter descended on their table, a colourful sombrero and an obnoxiously racist mimicry of an accent marking his arrival.

His cheerful demeanour faltered only slightly under Shaw’s glare and the mocking angle of Root’s eyebrows. “Can I get you two beautiful ladies something to drink?” Shaw glared harder. Root yawned and brushed her socked foot a little further up the inside of Shaw’s leg.

Nervously now, he looked over his shoulder for help. None came. He breathed out heavily when Shaw finally eased up and said, “Tap water, no ice.”

Of all the scrubby little white boys in the state, naturally they would get stuck babysitting this runt waiter at Mexico-a-go-go. The garish decorating and the overhead lights spotting Shaw’s every blink, this place would give anyone a headache.

Against all odds, the kid tried to slip Shaw his number as he hotfooted his way back to the bar. She looked balefully at the slip of the paper for a few seconds before flicking it off the table. Root, meanwhile, was still trying to draw her into a game of footsie under the draping tablecloth. “He’s kind of cute, if you like them greasy and unfortunate.”

Abruptly, Shaw shook the playful foot away as it bussed at the side of her knee. This was not the place; even she had to draw a line somewhere. God knows Root never would, the little exhibitionist.

“Bank of mommy and daddy not quite cutting it anymore, huh?” Shaw murmured, watching their number stumble and drop both glasses on his way to the sink. Root giggled quietly across the table.

Though she wasn’t much into the public fondling, Shaw reached under the tablecloth and brushed her fingers against Root’s bare leg. A later-later promise after the shake-off earlier. Root’s smile made promises of her own as she leaned into the touch. “Say daddy again.” Christ.

“I’m pretty sure our friend can take care of himself for the next couple of hours,” Root said, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the table. She was never all that interested in the number work, least of all the greaseball men who paid significant attention to Shaw’s many... assets. Not that she’d ever admit to that out loud; jealousy was beneath her. “Maybe we should go check out his place again. In case we missed something.”

Apartment 107 was in a sketchy block across the city, where their clumsy waiter now lived with fifty grand of gambling debts and a tangled string of past convictions. Many of which had already been buried by his wealthy parents, before the charges got a little too hot to handle. Small wonder he had loan sharks and other unsavoury types beating down his door.

(Turning up at 3am with _machetes_ , of all things. Shaw had some real fun that night.)

“I won’t be the one owning up to Harold if he dies while you’re eating me out on his crusty sofa.” Shaw rolled her eyes, exasperated, but she was quick to scrape back her chair and follow Root to the door.


End file.
